Numb: The Genesis

VI. Strength

Sweat beaded on my forehead. I was heavily breathing under the summer heat. My hand wrapped around the longsword's grip. This was a swordfight.

The two of us would not say a word. I only heard Kenneth's distressed grunts that escaped his dry lips. He's been my assigned opponent for nine years now. He was now a well-figured young man with a clean-shaven face, and I, was only a mere lean-muscled teenager. His hooded eyes were menacing, as well as his build. I only reached his chin, and my shoulders couldn't compare to his broad, meaty ones. I was getting to that point though; I constantly practiced my swordmanship just so that I was equal in skill to Kenneth, but superior to Filip, the queen's last son who was closer to my age- three years my senior.

Pappa and the queen watched our duel, along with eleven of my brothers. I felt their eyes tracing my every movement. My left hand was clutched behind my back as my right hand that grasped the sword was near my hip. Kenneth shuffled back as I followed. Herr Wolff would call here and there, just making sure that we weren't going to harm another greatly; thick, padded fabric covered our chests, abdomens, and backs underneath our cotton shirts for protection. We were told to trust the other, but I just couldn't seem to trust Kenneth.

Ever since, I knew my brothers despised my existence. The queen as well. I understood that I've always been the burden to their family. I knew why they just loathed me so much. The queen went along to birth twelve sons, all heirs to the Westergård throne. And then the king went along with himself to produce a son with another maiden. Even worse, she was a lowly servant girl. My existence was just a reminder of such scandal that could ruin the Westergård family name. Maybe it was the attention, too. I was the outcast, and the king paid more of his attention to me. When Mamma left, Pappa looked after me because he knew that the queen wouldn't acknowledge my presence. He loved me out of pity since Mamma's banishment. He invited me to do all the extracurriculars, and my involvement in the princely activities was for the intention of raising me as a prince, even though I wasn't as much of a prince as my brothers. To me, all of it was to paint over my true self, creating an illusion to others. Over and over, I was painted to be one thing and then painted to be another. What was it all for anyway? Just to cover the fact that I was a bastard child- a mistake.

And here we were, participating in something a prince should know. War was inevitable, and who would know when we would need to fight? Anyway, I struck Kenneth on his shoulder, cutting his shirt but barely grazing his skin. This ultimately angered him, and so he instantly followed with swift swings. I tried to catch up, blocking his every swing- well, almost every swing. His last left a gash on my chest. Blood soaked through the protection padding and shirt, turning the crisp white into a wet crimson. I dropped my longsword. Kenneth still held onto his. His sword had blood dripping off its blade. I dropped to my knees and clutched my chest. It stung and the sun's rays shone upon it, which made the pain seem more than what it was. Herr Wolff was cursing at Kenneth once again like always as Kenneth wiped his mouth with his cotton sleeve, slowly exposing his crooked smile. His smile. I had this immediate, unexplainable notion that motivated me to grip onto my sword on the ground and come after him. I was feeble, but my rage was expressed through my hoarse shout. My other brothers held me back by the arms. Even though I knew they could hold me back still, I pushed. Kenneth mumbled almost inaudibly, but I know what he said.

"Weak."

But I was strong. After years of his torment during sword training, I persistently fought him. He was skilled enough to not hurt me, and that's how I knew he wanted to hurt me. And why would he strike so aggressively that his blade would puncture through our fabric armor? We both could easily avoid blood from being shed, but no, he didn't want to avoid it.

I rubbed my chest as I sat alone in the dungeon of the Arendelle palace. The gash was now a scar that parted the skin of my chest. Kenneth left his mark on me, and I had to deal with this memory of him for life- not that it was a bad memory or anything of the sort. It reminded me that I survived and that it was a battle wound. A wound that scarred me in the battle I fought alone... And that I was strong.

And I thought that if you were strong and had the drive to keep fighting, it would mean that you were a hero- besides doing good. But wouldn't being strong mean doing good for yourself? I guessed there's a fine line between being doing good for yourself and being plain selfish. I couldn't tell the difference, obviously. And now, I was here in this cell as someone who was...

Weak.